the-secret-crusade-oliver-bowden

35
Night was falling over Acre port, the grey stone harbour bathed in
orange, and the last of the sun painting the sea blood red as it melted
into the horizon. Water lapped hard at the bulwarks and sea walls, and
gulls called from their perches, but otherwise the harbour was empty,
strangely so.
Or … this one was at least. As he watched over it and puzzled at the
absence of Templar soldiers – in marked contrast to the last time he had
been there, when Sibrand’s men were all over it, like fleas on a dog –
something told Altaïr that any industry was to be found at the other side
of the docks, and his concern grew. He’d taken too long making his
decision. Was he about to pay for that?
But the harbour wasn’t quite empty. Altaïr heard the sound of
approaching footsteps and hushed talk. He held up a hand and, behind
him, his team came to a halt, becoming still shadows in the dark. He
crept along the harbour wall until he could see them, pleased to note
that they had moved apart. The first was almost directly beneath him
now, holding up his torch and peering into the dark nooks and crannies
of the damp harbour wall. Altaïr wondered if his thoughts were of home,
of England or France and the family he had there, and he regretted that
the man had to die. As he silently leaped from the wall, landing on him
and driving the blade deep, he wished there was another way.